


CIA Headquarters --- 1955

by besselfcn



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: 29 occurances of the word fuck, Blackmail, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 08:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21317179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: “Okay,” Curt says. “Are we done? Any other questions I can disappoint you about?”Cynthia twirls her cigarette between her fingers. “Yeah,” she says, and then she looks at Curt, and right through him. “Why the fuck do I have pictures of you knockin’ dicks with Owen Carvour?”
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 43
Kudos: 291





	CIA Headquarters --- 1955

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cptsdstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdstars/gifts).

> Watched Spies are Forever, craved some more of Cynthia's ranting (and pre-Russia Curt & Owen) so I homebrewed my own.

“How’s South China?”

“Slow-going. Can’t get the damn ambassador to talk. Let me keep working him, though.”

“And Argentina?”

“Wet.”

“It’s _ wet?_”

“Yeah, it’s been raining there every time I’ve gone, I think the place is cursed.”

Cynthia presses the heel of her hand to her temples. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. So China is _ slow _ and Argentina is _ wet_. You got… I dunno. Fuckin’ any progress to share with me?”

Curt clears his throat. “Uh,” he says. “Barb made a shoe that’s also a phone.”

“Great,” Cynthia says, in a voice like it’s not great. “Good for Barb.”

Curt nods. “Okay,” he says, and wipes his hands against his jeans. “Are we done? Any other questions I can disappoint you about?”

Cynthia twirls her cigarette between her fingers. “Yeah,” she says, and then she looks at Curt, and right through him. “Why the _ fuck _ do I have pictures of you knockin’ dicks with Owen Carvour?”

The whole world slows down around Curt. 

Then it speeds up, so fast he gets nauseous, heart racing and fingers trembling where he has them shoved into his pockets.

“Wh,” he says. “What?”

Cynthia reaches under her desk. “Sorry, maybe I wasn’t clear.” She produces a manila folder, which she slaps down onto the table in front of Curt with a sound like a slap across his face. “Why. The _ fuck_. Do I have pictures of you _ knockin’ dicks _ with Owen Carvour, you dumb _ fuck?_”

Curt doesn’t know what possesses him to open the folder, but he does--he leans forward and gingerly lifts the envelope open, and, yup, okay, it isn’t a bluff, that’s great.

It’s photographs of him and Owen in that fucking hotel room in Monaco City three months ago. His hands up Owen’s shirt, Owen’s mouth against his neck, prying their clothes off each other’s bodies, Owen’s hand in his hair, him on his knees, and okay, that’s enough. He closes the folder. 

“It’s, um,” he says, and then clears his throat and tries again. “They’re doctored, I don’t know—”

“Oh, like fuck they are,” Cynthia snaps. “I’ve seen far too much of Owen’s stupid little dick and your dumb fucking face to not be able to figure out what the two of those look like put together, alright?”

“When did you see Owen’s—”

“Is that the point of this, Mega? Hmm? Is that really the conversation you wanna start right now? Because the conversation _ I _ want to have is about how you, an international spy for the fucking CIA, managed to get yourself into a situation where a god damn photo album worth of blackmail ended up on my desk, and what the fuck I am supposed to do about the fact that you are now compromised because you couldn’t keep your teeny tiny little _ dick _ inside your expensive little _ pants_.”

Curt has a lot of responses--has imagined a lot of responses to this scenario, practiced it with himself in the mirror--including _ this isn’t any of your fucking business _ or _ if you’re going to fire me, then fire me _ or _ fuck you,_ but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

Cynthia blinks.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Curt looks up at her; it’s only then he realizes his eyes are watering and shit, he’s crying, or he’s starting to, so he doesn’t look at her anymore like maybe that’ll make this easier. 

“Cut it out, Curt,” Cynthia sighs. She drags the file back over to her. “I’m not fuckin’ firing you or whatever you think’s going on here.”

“I’m sorry,” Curt says again. “It won’t. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Okay, _ see _,” Cynthia says, and she slams her hands down on the table, stands up to her full almost-five-foot height, and Curt jumps again, tries to shrink down. “See, that is what I can’t fuckin’ stand, you know? I don’t really need the bullshittery, Curt. I really don’t. Cause I’ll tell you what I know, okay, about this here situation.”

She stops to tap her cigarette in the ash tray and clear her throat. Curt has a feeling she’s testing him to see if he’ll try and interrupt, and for once, he manages to bite his tongue.

“You,” Cynthia starts, “have what psychiatrists like to call an _ addictive personality_. So you get a little bit of somethin’, and you just want more, and more, and more and more and more like a stupid fuckin’ kid in a candy shop who wants to gorge himself on candy. So stuff like drugs, and like alcohol, and like fuckin’ other dudes, that shit is not gonna stop just because you tell me a little promise. And _ Owen_—” she scoffs, leans her head back and actually laughs. “Owen has this chronic and incurable condition called _ not fucking giving a shit_. So I don’t think he is gonna be inclined to stop fuckin’ around either. So do not _ fucking _ insult me by telling me this shit is gonna stop happening with you two. Alright? Don’t fuckin’ do it.”

Curt’s head is spinning. He looks to Cynthia, to the folder in front of her, to the door to her office he was pretty sure a minute ago he was going to be unceremoniously booted through. 

“So,” he says, “you’re not--you’re not mad that—”

Cynthia takes a long inhale of smoke that curls out the corners of her mouth before she talks again. “That what? That my best spy is a homosexual, and that now I gotta deal with all the fuckery that that’s bound to create along with all the other fuckery that comes with the way you do your fuckin’ job, which is to say, not very fuckin’ well? Yeah, I’m fuckin’ pissed.”

She taps out her cigarette, and Curt has enough time to think _ so, I am getting fired? Also, I have a headache _ before she starts up again.

“But I really, genuinely, could _ not _ give less of a flying _ fuck _ what or who you do in your spare time as long as the photo-fuckin-graphic evidence does not end up on my desk or yours at the end of the day, capiche?”

Curt nods. He nods without really understanding, without being able to put this into context--because there’s no version in his mind of _ someone other than Owen or I finds out _ that does not end with _ this is the end of things _ , but here it is, he supposes, held out for him by Cynthia like a live grenade or loaded gun and she’s staring at him like _ do not fuck this up_.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I got it. Okay.”

“Get the fuck out of my office,” she says, and he goes.

As he gets to the door he stops, realization sluggishly making its way through his veins. “Wait,” he says. “The. The pictures, who took the pictures? How do we stop them from putting them out?”

Cynthia, leaned back in her chair, heels up on the table, sighs as she lights her third cigarette. “I took the pictures, you dumb fuck. Close the curtains next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this in the year 2019 I have a tendency of being late as hell


End file.
